The First Stone
by Esse
Summary: Justice in Esthar is swift, their mercy — cruel. AU, or not. No ending can ever stay happy.


_**Disclaimer:** _Square Enix_, the characters are yours. The following jumble of words are mine. And in my dearest dreams, _Esse Sqix_ is ours. I really don't see that ever happening though, as Esse has no money to buy out _Square Enix_, is a poor candidate for a merger, and has so many personalities that a hostile take-over would scarcely be noticed._

_**Note:** FFnet used to be about creativity. Imagine that. The short, _credited_ lyrics at the beginning are there t' set mood, and should fall within fair usage. But perhaps mood has been deemed unnecessary to a ficcie by FFnet. Feh. I'm taking my chances. Now if only someone could strangle the document manager..._

_**Warnings:** Not a happy fic. It deals with impending death — but since it stops _right at the moment_ it's not actually a deathfic. I don't think. There's bad language. There's Seifer, thinking. Sorta. There's Esthar bashing — but no one likes that silly desert country anyways. The Lunar Cry served those pansies right. Seppuku is the only way to redeem themselves for needing Laguna t' save their gauzy asses from Adel. Ahem. I mentioned the bad language, yes?_

_**Secondary Warning:** Let's face facts: Esse's a shounen ai writer. So even when she tries really _really_ hard to jot down something totally innocuous, the boys sneak in those looks, and sighs, and innuendos… If you're likely to be offended by the slightest display of un-hetero affection, do us both a favor and back yourself on outta here. If you're not sure if you'll be offended, well, here's a reassurance. The shounen ai is pretty minimal; it's not what this ficcie's about. I'm pretty sure. Maybe. Hell, maybe it's entirely what this fic is about. Ask me again when I've caught up on my sleep._

**.oOo.**

**The First Stone**

**.oOo.**

_Carry on my wayward son  
__There'll be peace when you are done  
__Lay your weary head to rest  
__Don't you cry no more  
_— Carry On Wayward Son  
Kansas

They'd never been cruel. Not in the classic definition of the word; there'd been no torture, no inhumane treatment, no cold, dank cell for him to rot in indefinitely. There was no lock on the doors leading out of his suite to the palace beyond; no lock on the windows looking out over the gleaming expanse of the city. There were no guards — and there had been few visitors, though it had been carefully explained to him at the beginning of his incarceration that they were allowed. Welcome, even. Anyone might see him, if only they bothered _coming_ to see him.

It wasn't meant to be cruel. The lavish meals spread out before him, far more than he could eat alone, far more than he could have ever afforded on his meager Garden stipend — he was lucky if he could force down more than a few bites. Impossible to assuage a hunger that no longer existed, no matter how exquisitely prepared the morsels.

And when asked what he wanted for his last meal, his answer had raised brows, and twisted lips into puzzled grins on the faces of the staff sent to attend him. Confusion, and his request worked its way up the chain of command, until the President himself had come, and asked him to repeat his chosen menu.

President Loire — not ever _Laguna_, no matter that the man had asked him on several occasions to drop the title — had listened, and more than the servants, the cooks, the palace staff, he'd _understood_. Had rubbed his hands together, and with a determined glint in his grayed-blue eyes, nodded and said, "Okay."

So he'd had a visitor arrive earlier that day. She'd come, with a peanut butter and plum jelly sandwich, the crust cut off and the bread lightly toasted into a cream and tan likeness of Pupurun. She'd come, with a overfull glass of milk, the outside beading with condensation. She'd come, she'd come! and he'd buried his head in Matron's lap and sobbed, while she held him, and cried freezing tears, and murmured over his bent head, "My son, oh my son."

Justice in Esthar was swift. Trial, sentence, execution, all within the same week. No court of appeal; no second chances for a failed Sorceress' Knight. "It's not right," President Loire had confided the day before, standing thin and forlorn on the suite's expensive plush carpeting. "But they won't listen. Esthar's suffered under sorceresses for too long; it's made them vengeful. I've tried — how I've tried! Ultimately, though, I'm just an elected official — and not Estharian. They're set on this course of action. But they're not cruel… They offer you a mercy…"

He could find nothing merciful in the Estharians' boon. And yet — they'd never been _deliberately_ cruel. There was something he wasn't understanding, some aspect of the barbarous sentence he couldn't quite grasp. He'd laughed incredulously at the President, at Loire twisting his hands in the crumpled tails of his shirt, and told him what he thought of Esthar's famed mercy.

He hadn't been polite. He hadn't cared. There wasn't anything more Esthar could do; no one could break an already shattered plate. No one could lynch a man twice — if the mob did its job properly the first time around. No one could revivify a body pulped beyond recognition. He'd asked Loire if so much as a pebble remained in the plains surrounding the city, then laughed again bitterly, and wished the President well with the cleanup.

Loire had flinched, tearing the cloth clenched in his hands. "You don't understand."

No, no he didn't.

"I'll contact Squall; he'll find someone…"

Certainly. He'd kept on laughing, collapsed on the couch with the rays of the setting sun drenching the room in vermillion. It was Squall he'd been expecting, actually; no reason for the Commander of Balamb Garden to pass the opportunity down: Delegation was, after all, for _unpleasant_ tasks.

But no. With his head resting wearily against Matron's shoulder, his second visitor of the day walked in. _Walked_ in; jarring dissonance, no bounce, no nervous, twitching gestures, no grin nor snarl nor childish pout marring the seriousness of his expression. So wrong, and yet fitting, that if it had to be anyone in the whole entire Hyne-damned universe…

"Chicken." His voice rasped against the raw edges of his throat, muffled itself against Matron's dress; he couldn't be bothered to maintain appearances, couldn't care _less_ about the young man sitting across from him in the scarlet upholstered recliner. "You must be ecstatic."

Azure eyes blinked, as Zell settled himself deeper into the cushioned chair. "Do tell."

"Haven't you heard? Today's my deathday. And what have you brought me?" He lifted his head from Matron's shoulder, though his fingers stayed firmly entangled in her fine, silk shawl. "Let me guess: Is it — a rock? Silly me; of course it is. Everyone in Esthar has one with my name on it. You though — you lucky Chicken you — get to be the first. Doesn't it make you happy? Doesn't it seem like fuckin' poetic justice? Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names have always hurt you!"

"Seifer!" Matron admonished, and he ducked his head, pushing closer against her side, wanting to hide, wanting to crawl into her lap and shelter behind her long, dark hair as he'd once done as a child newly woken from a nightmare.

"Shit." Zell slouched, a difficult task while wearing his stiffly starched SeeD uniform. "You just don't get it, do you?"

"Get what? Get that Esthar wanted _me_ to choose who got first go? Wanted _me_ to choose a friend — a _friend_ for Hyne's sake! — to throw the first stone? I get it, okay? I get that Esthar's so-called mercy is a mind-fuck! Like I'd **want** Fujin and Raijin to hafta live with that kinda…" He shook his head violently, while his humble lunch burned at the back of his throat. "Get that you probably begged Squall for the chance… yeah, I get it Chicken. I get it just fine."

"No, you don't, you don't get it at all." Standing, Zell tugged at the gilt-edged cuffs of his jacket. "Squall talked to them, Seifer. Raijin has the strength, but not the accuracy. Fujin's aim is perfect, but her throw doesn't have the necessary force. Out of the entire Garden, I'm the only one that can manage both. Do you understand yet? I'm the _only_ one. I **never** wanted this Seifer, but it's not like I had a choice!"

"_Sure_ you don't want this, Chickenshit; couldn't ever stand up to me, but brave enough to attempt a little payback—" His jaw ached, and he swallowed blood, wincing as his bitten tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth. The Chicken had hit him, he realized, rubbing his face in numb shock. Had _hit_ him… "The fuck?"

"The single mercy Esthar's granted you, asshole. One person you trust, to throw the first stone. To throw it, and kill you. One stone — and one chance that you're dead before the mob's set loose. I've never wanted your death, Seifer, and I've been praying nonstop that I'll be able to kill you cleanly, you fucker, because there's a _lot_ of angry people out there, and I'm so afraid that I'll miss…" He took an unsteady breath, and collapsed back on the chair. "I never wanted this."

"…Oh." Matron was rubbing his back, small circles that leached the remaining warmth from his bones. So much worse than what he'd thought it was; so much easier than he'd hoped it would be. "Not even the tiniest bit?" Because there were people out there that would be more than happy to have the chance; he knew there were; they sent him letters with cute chicobo stamps and ugly threats of violence. "'Cause, you know, it would make me feel — better, I guess."

It startled a small smile from Zell. "I could lie, I guess."

"Funny, that didn't make me feel better at all." There was still milk left in the glass; he raised it to his mouth, then lowered it, leaving behind the red imprint of his lips. Instead he placed it against his cheek, relishing the coolness where a bruise was starting to form. "I woulda sworn you hated me."

"Yeah, well, if you weren't the person you are, and if I wasn't the person I am—"

"What, if I wasn't an asshole?"

"And I wasn't chickenshit. Exactly." He sighed and reached out, lightly tapping the side of the glass. "I'm sorry for punching you."

"Thanks. I'd say I was sorry, but I wouldn't know where to begin." Matron rested her hand against the back of his neck, and gave a reassuring squeeze. "If we were two different people — we'd be two entirely different people. With their whole lives ahead of them. Sounds nice."

"Doesn't it?" Zell's smile looked slightly more feral this time around. "Right now, Esthar's got the tech advantage. But Laguna's stepping down; he can't handle this crap any more. And Esthar's _never_ been able to withstand a determined sorceress; it took Laguna to do that for them. A few years from now, Rinoa's coming here fully trained, and she plans on razing Esthar to the ground. I'd feel sorry for them, if they'd ever bothered feeling sorry for you. What kind of fucked up legal system gets a case finished in a week?"

"An efficient one? Did you guys ever wonder why Galbadia has prisons, but not Esthar? Think of the tax dollars saved—" A cough from the suite's double doors interrupted him. "Yeah?"

Loire, in ceremonial robes and ceremonial hat and incongruous floppy leather sandals, stepped into the room, his hands tucked out of sight within his voluminous sleeves. "It's time."

"Crowd getting antsy, huh?" He lowered his glass of milk, and pulled away from Matron's side. "Can't even wait for me to finish lunch." He might have moved away from Matron, but she maintained a supportive grip on his arm; stood when he stood; hugged him with a gentle warmth that was almost enough to thaw the ice clawing into his spine. Almost. "Not that I mind; never was one for putting things off."

There were too many sympathetic eyes fixed upon him; three pairs too many, and his entire life he'd maintained a façade that had gotten him nowhere but _here_ and he didn't know how much longer he could hold himself together, and didn't know why he was bothering.

"I don't want to die."

He didn't. But he followed Loire out of the palace, surrounded by armed security — to protect him! the irony of it nestled painfully at his temples — with Matron left behind in the suite, and Zell ahead of him, heart-achingly proper in his SeeD uniform. The crowd surged, seethed, jeered, but couldn't push past the perimeter manned by guards hired specifically for the occasion. A woman sold yakitori, while a man lifted his daughter to his shoulders, the better to view the spectacle.

"Any last words?" Loire asked. _Laguna_ asked; what did it matter? There wasn't need for artificial distance, not now that his life could be measured in breaths, in eye blinks, in steps.

"Sure." He stared at Zell, at the rock resting in his gloved hand, at the strands of his usually spiked wheaten hair falling across pained azure eyes. "If we were two different people, we'd sit down to dinner tonight, and share a bottle of sauvignon, and finally sort out what's between us. That's what I want on my tombstone. Along with my name; dates aren't important; it's not like anyone actually knows for sure when I was born. And…"

He didn't want to die, not here, not in the middle of the hating, hissing mob.

"…And, if Matron doesn't mind, maybe, you know…"

In his mind came the soft reassurance. _Never doubt it, Seifer. Beloved son, truest Knight._

He didn't want to die, but with his eyes locked on Zell's pale face, and his consciousness cradled by Matron's power, it wasn't as terrible a thing as it might have been. Esthar's mercy hadn't been cruel after all.

_If we were different people…_

He never felt the first stone.

**.oOo.**

_**End Note:** I just wanted to say Seifer was _totally_ against the writing of this fic. Halfway through I was struck with the migraine from hreck. Right at this very moment I can feel another one building (hey, look at the pretty auras!). I don't normally write this kinda thing, but the idea wouldn't leave me alone. And while Zell would never inflict a migraine upon me — Seifer wouldn't hesitate, if he thought it would keep me from finishing. Ha, showed you, boyo._

_Anyway. Why would Esthar execute Seif, but not Edea? Easy: Edea never invaded their country. For all the Estharians care, it was Seifer, floating around in Lunatic Pandora, that was the cause of all their woes. Stupid Estharians._

_Urg. Just trying to concentrate on my monitor is making me nauseas. Guess it's pills for me tonight. Hate the ficcie? Yeah, me too. But if you're feelin' the need to flame, gimme a break. Trying to live inside my head is torture enough at the moment._


End file.
